


Unworthy

by armoredsuperheavy (b33x)



Category: The Man Who Laughs (1928)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Pining, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25412716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b33x/pseuds/armoredsuperheavy
Summary: Gwynplaine catches a glimpse of something he can never have.
Relationships: Gwynplaine/Dea
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to dreamwidth where there are illustrations  
> https://armoredsuperheavy.dreamwidth.org/5542.html

On the road to C---- they made camp to rest for a day. Barkilphedro set out on foot to gather supplies. Gwynplaine was inside the caravan mending his costume, when he noticed a motion in the corner of his eye. He glanced out the small window. The wash tub was outside in the grass, concealed from the road by hanging lines of laundry. He found Dea, emerging like a nymph, nude and wet from the soapy water of the tub. Gwynplaine stared, his eyes devouring her soft gleaming curves and small breasts. Dea was unaware, bending down to rub herself with a towel. He was struck frozen, overflowing with a nameless feeling as he bore witness to this intimate, private moment. Lightning shot down his spine, settling into a low, burning shamefulness. He pinched himself through his trousers, a filthy sinful creature, and stole a final sweet glimpse before he thrust the little window's shutter closed.

How could he think such things? How could he look upon innocent Dea with such writhing filthy lust in his heart? In a buzzing storm of frustration he went to his vanity and opened its doors. Behind these shutters lay not innocence and tender beauty, but the monstrousness of his ravaged face, and the awful thoughts that only Gwynplaine knew boiled behind his pale eyes. With his sewing needle he pricked himself: on his fingertips, because he wanted to seize her,and along his thighs because he hadn't the courage to attack the troublesome root of the problem and suffer properly.

As inadequate as this self-punishment was, it had its intended effect. The excitement of his flesh abated only just in time, as Dea entered the caravan. She was dressed again in her shift, the moisture making it cling along her soft upper arms, her wet hair dark on her shoulders. Dea was ignorant--oh, how--of how much of her Gwynplaine could discern, how much his mind assembled, now that he'd glimpsed her budding secrets. His own body had changed too, of course, shooting up taller, a restless energy when he woke from long slumbers, ravenously hungry as he grew, and a wolf's appetites for other things as well. But these were his own private sufferings and Dea was never to know.


	2. Chapter 2

Barkilphedro had known, of course, what was afoot even before Dea realized anything was happening at all. He'd hung a sheet up between their beds and forbade Dea from changing clothes while Gwynplaine was in the caravan. He'd made cryptic remarks about how they were both growing. Of course they were growing. How else could it be? Dea was fourteen now; her cycle had started that spring. She considered herself a full-grown woman. 

Gwynplaine was as he always was, solicitous and kind, her protector and companion despite his fits of mischief. Yet, she felt a strange distance beginning to grow up between their formerly easy camaraderie. Where before, Gwynplaine would snatch away her fork at dinner and hold it in his long arm high above his head, provoking her to clutch against him until he relented, and other easy sport born of long familiarity, lately these games had all but disappeared. Dea realized with a shock that Gwynplaine had been avoiding her touch.

As Gwynplaine came back from market one day, Dea rushed out to embrace him, the sun warm on her face and Gwynplaine smelling of hay, sweat, and fresh tomatoes, he'd dropped his parcels and took her in his arms for a moment before he stiffened and held her at arm's length.

"What's wrong?" Dea asked.

"It's nothing," Gwynplaine stammered out.

"Have I got some dirt on my dress?" she said. Perhaps he was worried about dirtying his own clothes.

Gwynplaine was silent for a moment, then laughed, high and nervous. "No, no, it's nothing to do with you," he said finally, but forebore to explain further.

Moments such as these happened more and more frequently, until Dea was convinced it was her, after all. Their easy banter of earlier times had all but evaporated, and Gwynplaine no longer wished to play old, silly games. 

Another old pastime was to sit in Gwynplaine's lap and sing songs together after dinner. They'd done this since Dea could remember; Barkilphedro said that Gwynplaine had sung her to fitful sleep, when he'd found them both half-frozen that long-ago winter night. Gwynplaine had refused to relinquish the baby and had slept with her in his small arms. They'd been inseparable, and now, by degrees, Gwynplaine was uneasily separating himself, keeping Dea at a distance. She was no longer his confidante.

He only held her hand now when she accompanied him to market, wrapping his long fingers around hers and clenching too hard whenever he pulled her out of the path of an oncoming horse. Though he hurt her, she did not complain. She knew the tight grip was proof he still cared for her. 

One night late in their tiny caravan, Dea awoke to hear a groan from Gwynplaine's bed--he was only a few feet away, separated by the worn sheet Barkilphedro had hung. She nearly whispered to Gwynplaine asking if he was ill, but something held her back. Instead Dea lay very still, listening to their guardian's measured snores and the shuddering breaths and rustling sounds of Gwynplaine's bed. The sounds culminated in a quick rhythm. What was he doing? One more sharp groan escaped him and the movement ceased. "Dea, Dea," Gwynplaine whispered brokenly, so softly she could hardly make it out. And then she heard his heavy breathing transmute into crying as he snuffled and shuddered. Though he'd said her name, she knew it wasn't meant for her ears. She lay awake a long time, listening to Gwynplaine's breathing fall into sleep, stunned by everything she'd heard.


End file.
